


Nourishment

by Reprehensible_Content



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Forced Oral, Forced Orgasm, Implied Incest, Manipulation, Other, POV Second Person, Rape, Reader has a vagina, Starvation, Threats of Violence, but at a price, but uses they/them pronouns, dark!Joxer, graphic description of rape, guilt tripping, poor!Snufkin, reader is staying with joxter and snufkin over winter, reader protects snufkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reprehensible_Content/pseuds/Reprehensible_Content
Summary: You’ve seen the bruises. The cuts explained away as scrapes and grazes, when you can see full well that this boy doesn’t have the energy to be outside exploring. He’s a ghost, a waif of a thing, fit to fade away at any moment. The sight of his hollow eyes breaks your heart.So you start feeding him.





	Nourishment

**Author's Note:**

> Usual warnings apply kids, especially for this one. Graphic descriptions of rape and abuse ahead; please don't read this if it's likely to upset you.
> 
> I was inspired to write this after reading the Joxter/Snufkin fics by Doceo_Percepto and SpOOpy and by Vintermumriken on Tumblr

You’ve seen the bruises. The cuts explained away as scrapes and grazes, when you can see full well that this boy doesn’t have the energy to be outside exploring. He’s a ghost, a waif of a thing, fit to fade away at any moment. The sight of his hollow eyes breaks your heart.

So you start feeding him.

You’re careful - so, so careful – to avoid the Joxter when you start to slip food his way. You start small. A bread roll pressed into his hand after (his father’s) supper. An apple rolled under the door when Joxter’s left him in solitary confinement.

Whenever he goes out to hunt you seize the opportunity to bring Snufkin a bowl of soup or stew. When he’s finished, he steals into your lap for a few grateful moments of affection as you kiss his forehead and pet his hair.

_It’ll be alright_, you promise._ When spring comes we’ll leave here and never come back. It’s going to be alright._

You’re not sure what it is that tipped the Joxter off. Maybe you’d made a mistake when replacing supplies – there was no doubt he kept a careful inventory of stock. Perhaps he caught on to the marginal glow in Snufkin’s cheeks brought on by your attentions. It might just have been that you looked guiltier than usual. Whatever the case, you should have been more wary.

It all starts when the Joxter goes out on a hunting expedition; not unusual in itself, but he takes Snufkin with him, and that makes you worry. Your anxiety only increases as the first day turns to a second and then a third. Left alone to pace in anxious circles around the kitchen, you’re actually overjoyed to hear the Joxter’s footsteps in the hall. You rush out into the passageway to find him standing with a bundle under each arm.

“Rabbit stew tonight!” he proclaims jovially, dropping both son and carcass as if they were equally worthless to him. Which they are.

You sink down next to Snufkin with a little cry.

“What have you _done_ to him?”

Joxter ignores you, choosing instead to draw a knife to dress his kill whilst humming something cheerful.

Snufkin appears lifeless, skin stretched tight as vellum over his pained features. Wild with panic, you grab his wrist to find a pulse. Finding only cold flesh, you press you ear against his chest, mortified by the jut of his sternum into your cheek. The flutter of a heartbeat moves you to tears, but it’s the little moan that pushes you over the brink.

He tries to say your name but he’s too weak. You scoop your arms around his shoulders and press him against you, sobbing in utter horror.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You’re safe now, I’ve got you. You’re safe, you’re safe…”

“Is he, now?”

You clutch Snufkin closer by instinct as you glare up at him. He wields the knife in one hand and carries a dismembered rabbit leg over his shoulder with the other; his gloves and sleeves are soaked with blood.

“_What did you do?_”

“_I_ didn’t do anything,” the Joxter sneers in disdain. “The boy’s only got himself and the weather to blame. A mumrik ought to be able to survive a few days out in wilderness without provisions; I don’t intend to raise one that can’t.”

In that moment you seethe with such hatred that you can’t find words. It’s only the gentle grip of Snufkin’s hands against your back that keeps you grounded.

“He needs food.”

He snorts and cocks his head at you. “And what are you now, his parent?”

“At this point, yes. Yes, I am. More so than you, at any rate.”

The way his icy eyes narrow makes you think that might have been a dangerous thing to say, judging by the way his knuckles tighten around the knife. A cold fear threads its fingers about your throat and you brace for impact, but the Joxter just turns and walks into the kitchen.

You wait, breath bated, to see what he will do next. You hear the sound of pots being moved, then the steady sound of a knife slicing down onto a chopping board. Is this it? Has it been punishment enough for him to see you wrought with despair over Snufkin’s broken little body? A splinter of guilt wriggles in the base of your chest, but it is completely subsumed by fiery rage.

Consequences be damned – Snufkin needs to eat.

He’s so thin that you can pick him up without any trouble. Cradling him, you carry him into the kitchen to find Joxter making preparations for the aforementioned stew. He doesn’t make any indication that he’s noticed you, but you notice that he starts slicing the vegetables with a little more force.

You pull out a chair and set Snufkin in it; you kiss his temple before letting him slump forwards onto the table. Then, girding yourself with your anger, you cross the kitchen, right next to where the Joxter is holding a very sharp knife, to take the kettle off the stove.

“Would you like tea?” you ask, trying to parse it as a peace offering.

The knife stills for a moment before he replies.

“Sure, why not?”

You fill the kettle then set it on the hob to boil. The pot of stew bubbles away sluggishly as you fetch the tea things; it’s all horribly suggestive of some sort of domestic bliss. You set out three mugs; you know this is pushing your luck, but you’re not going to back down now.

As you return when the kettle starts whistling, Joxter turns sharply, holding the knife up. You flinch away only to see that he’s offering you the lump of raw meat impaled on the tip.

“Won’t you have some?” he asks, all innocence. “It’s so much better before it’s cooked.”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He plucks the chunk off with his incisors and chews it with relish. You suppress a shiver at the sight of the red coating his lips and teeth.

You retrieve the kettle and brew the tea. You know how the Joxter takes his; very dark with just a little honey. Yours is lighter and sweeter. Into the third cup you put three big spoonfuls – that should get his blood sugar up. You have the presence of mind to add a little cold water to Snufkin’s cup so that he can drink it straight down.

You set the Joxter’s cup next to him to muttered acknowledgement; then you take the others to the table. Setting the sweet tea in front of Snufkin, you crouch beside him to whisper to close in his ear.

“Drink.”

His eyes flick up and you know he’s watching his father. 

“It’ll be alright. Drink.”

Quickly, he takes it and drinks deeply. His hands are trembling so hard that you support the cup from underneath. 

“And what _exactly_ do you think you’re doing?”

The tone of his voice makes your blood run cold, but it doesn’t prevent you from glaring back at him.

“What does it look like?” you snap defiantly. “Looking after your son.”

Knife in one hand, Joxter picks up his mug in the other and advances towards the pair of you. You stand up straight, stepping in front of Snufkin’s chair.

“Stay away from him.” 

“If the boy wants tea, then I’ll _give_ him tea.”

You can see where this is going.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

He stops in front of you, brandishing the knife. You’re taller than him, by a little, but it doesn’t make him any less menacing.

“Move.”

“No.”

His eyes narrow.

“Boy,” he barks, “step out from behind your friend.” When Snufkin fails to comply, he snarls “stop hiding like a coward now, boy, or your friend is going to get hurt.”

To your horror, you hear the chair scrape as Snufkin gets down. You need to act quickly. Before Joxter has chance to throw the scalding tea into his son’s face, you seize his wrist. He shouts and pulls back, covering you both with the burning liquid instead.

He breaks away, howling, as the cup drops to shatter on the floor. You stumble back against the table, hissing in pain; Snufkin cries out and grabs your shoulder.

“It’s alright,” you strain out, “it’s okay. Keep drinking.”

He regards you with wide eyes, as if that should be the last thing on your mind at present, but he obeys, taking up his tea and swallowing it as fast as possible.

You dash across the kitchen to run your burning skin under the cold tap. Over the running water, you hear the Joxter seethe.

“If you ever feed him without my permission again, I’m going to cut off one of his fingers, do you understand?”

You stop the tap dead.

“You _what_?”

“You heard me,” he rumbles. “One finger for each offence. You’ve got ten chances before I move on to something else.”

You turn on him, flaring.

“You’re _insane_.”

The Joxter glowers back at you, straightening up.

“If you disagree with how I’m raising my boy,” he growls, clasping his hands behind his back, “then you can leave.” His eyebrows float. “You know that you’re free to leave at any time, of course.”

You clench your jaw.

“You know that I won’t.”

The Joxter smirks; _of course_ he does.

He stalks towards you; you retreat. You can see what he’s doing - he’s herding you, cornering you. In a heartbeat he’s got you backed up against the counter, an arm on either side to pin you in place.

“In that case,” he purrs, crowding in against you, “I think we had better re-establish some _ground rules_.”

“What do you mean?” you hiss, fighting to stay calm.

The Joxter presses his forehead against yours in a ghastly imitation of intimacy, grinning like a shark.

“It means,” he croons, “that in _my_ burrow, we follow _my_ rules, hm?”

That’s when he kisses you, smearing your lips with rabbit’s blood. You gag and wrench away in protest.

“Ah, ah, ah!” he clucks disapprovingly. “You want your dear Snufkin to eat, don’t you?”

“I- what?”

The Joxter chuckles.

“A mumrik so fundamental a failure as my son scarcely deserves to eat; and as for you, my dear, for your part in this you deserve to watch him starve.”

His eyes twinkle at your mortified expression.

“But, as I am a _magnanimous_ soul, I’m inclined to be generous. But! It will require your cooperation. So, I ask you again. Do you want Snufkin to eat?”

You hesitate. Out of the corner of your eye you see Snufkin watching, huddled up on the chair and clutching his mug. 

“… yes.”

The Joxter hums as he hooks a thumb in your waistband.

“Then I suggest you _do as you’re told_.”

You shriek as he yanks your pants down. Not bothering with niceties, he shoves his hand down the front of your underwear and forces two fingers inside you. When you struggle and cry out, he grabs your throat in the other hand.

“Be still,” he grunts, and you feel his claws scrape against the walls of your vagina. For an awful moment you imagine him tightening his grip enough to tear through the intimate layers of muscle to reach the viscera quivering beneath, slicing a perforation wide enough for your guts to prolapse out into the palm of his hand. Glancing into his wintry eyes, you see a sparkle which suggests he might just have the same idea. You freeze.

“That’s better,” he coos. He starts to make gentle ‘come-hither’ motions that make you want to squirm, but you don’t dare. You grip the counter instead, squeezing until your knuckles go white; he notices and tuts.

“Now then,” he says, shaking his head, “if this is making you uncomfortable, we don’t have to do this.” So gentle, so concerned. The absolute parody of an affectionate partner. “Not if you don’t want to.” The hand in your pussy keeps working, making grotesque squishing noises as your body slicks up in protest against the intrusion.

You start trying to string a sentence together, desperately reaching for the words ‘stop’ and ‘don’t’, but your throat keeps spasming shut and all you manage are a series of cut-off whimpers.

“Of course,” he adds, as if it were an afterthought, “if you _don’t_, then Snufkin doesn’t eat. But don’t let that factor into your considerations.”

Your stomach plummets at that implication as he uses his thighs to nudge your legs apart, sliding into the space between. He pulls his hand out, wet with your juices, and sucks his fingers with obscene relish; he sweeps his smock aside with the other, unbuckling his pants.

Your throw your face away, revolted; when you feel his erection pressing up against your mound it’s too much and your hand shoots in between your bodies to push him away. In response he grips your face and drags you back round to face him; you find yourself fixed by a gaze which is deceptively calm. Beneath, he grinds slowly, pushing his dick against your palm.

“It’s your choice,” he states plainly. “We fuck, he eats. Deal?” 

It occurs to you, in a very far away part of your brain, that you could say no. There must be other ways you can help Snufkin, something else, anything else. Something screams at you, _stop this! You don’t need to do this! Push him off, go and get help!_ But that voice is spiralling further and further away as your brain barrels down a corridor hemmed in on all sides by rising panic.

You look at Snufkin over the Joxter’s shoulder; he’s watching from the dining table with huge, teary eyes. He shouldn’t have to witness this. He shouldn’t be going through any of this. But he is, as are you, and you need him to pull through. His survival depends on you.

Slowly, you remove the hand keeping him at bay to grip the counter again. The Joxter’s smile is like an open wound.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” he says, and pushes into you without further deliberation.

You gasp at the burn of insertion; he’s not that big but it still hurts.

“Ohhh,” he moans, flopping forward against your shoulder, “sweetheart, you’re so _tight_.”

If you had your wits about you, you’d tell that of course you’re tight, because you’re thoroughly unaroused. As it is, all you manage to do is choke on your own breath.

“Oh, am I hurting you, hm?” He draws out only to snap back in, pressing himself as far into you as he can get. “I suppose you should have thought of that before you got yourself into trouble.”

He starts a steady rhythm, gripping your hips so that he can push you away as he draws out and then pull you back in, impaling you on each thrust. Your head falls back, and you squeeze your eyes shut as your try to block out the pull of friction against your walls. Then he grabs your face.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes flutter open to find your field of vision dominated by two burning blue deadlights. It’s like looking into an abyss, a black hole; there’s not a trace of warmth. They bore into you, scrutinising you, recording any indication of pain with sound satisfaction.

“Does this feel good?” he asks sweetly.

You’re about to tell him to where to stick it when he rubs your clit with his thumb.

“How about now?”

‘Good’ is not exactly the word you’d use; horrified, confused stimulation is more like it, but it leaves you gasping all the same.

“Fuck you…”

“This must make you feel guilty,” he whispers gleefully. “This is _your_ fault, after all. Snufkin wouldn’t have had to suffer like this if you hadn’t felt the need to interfere in the first place.”

You’ve heard that manipulative tone, always directed at Snufkin before now, and it makes you furious. You wind your fingers into his hair and wrench his head back.

“The only thing I regret,” you spit, “is that I didn’t do anything _sooner_.”

That drives him completely wild. He smashes his face against yours, kissing you viciously as his thrusts become increasingly erratic. He bites down on your shoulder as he climaxes inside you, claws ripping your back to shreds.

Gradually, the pulsing of his hips subsides. He licks the blood from the tooth marks in your skin before violating your mouth with one final greedy kiss.

“Oh, that was good,” he huffs. “So good. Was it good for you?”

You’re numb. When he releases you, your legs buckle and give way. You slip down with your back against the counter to slump against the floor. Above you, the Joxter wipes his dick off and puts himself away as if nothing untoward had happened.

You’re vaguely aware of Snufkin leaving the chair with such force that it clatters over. He’s next to you in a heartbeat, hands hovering over your body, lips quivering. You can’t quite find words, so you take his face gently and touch your forehead to his. He presses a kiss against your cheek and starts to sob.

“Ah. How sweet. Good to see you appreciating what’s been done for you for once.”

The Joxter stands over the pair of you, dark as an omen of death. Broken as you are, you put a protective arm around Snufkin’s shoulder, even as he does the same to you.

“Why don’t you say thank you _properly_?” His voice has taken on a dangerous tone, chin tilted, eyes frightening.

“What do you mean?” Snufkin asks, trembling and hateful.

In response, the Joxter plants his foot against your thigh to force your legs open, ignoring your cry of protest.

“I mean that you should clean up after the messes you leave behind.”

“That isn’t his mess,” you snarl.

“Oh, but it is. You may have earned this by your meddling, but you wouldn’t have needed to intervene in the first place if Snufkin hadn’t been so _weak_. In the end it’s your fault, boy, although there’s nothing unusual in that, is there?”

His eyes narrow to icy slits and you feel Snufkin crumple against you. The Joxter snorts.

“Well?” He indicates with the toe of his boot. “Clean up.” 

Snufkin looks at you, hesitant, apologetic, before shuffling down your body to sink in between your thighs. He puts his hands on your hips and leans forward, but before he can even start, a tear rolls from the tip of his nose to splash against your vulva. He looks back up into your face, horrified and wobbly.

“Clean up,” his father snaps, “or you won’t eat.”

You’re tired; so, so tired, but you reach out to cover Snufkin’s hands in your own.

“It’s alright,” you mumble. “Do what you need to do.”

That only forces further tears down his cheeks, but he obeys, opening his mouth and gently putting his lips against you.

You inhale sharply, trying not to focus on the feeling of Snufkin’s tongue brushing against your labia. Try to be clinical about this, you think, you’re his _guardian_, this shouldn’t make you _feel_ anything – but it’s hard, so hard, when he tracks down to suck up the cum that’s trickled down your perineum, prodding the sensitive skin with the tip of his tongue as he endeavours to remove every last trace of his father from your body.

You bite down on a moan and suppress the temptation to roll your hips as he moves back up to suck the residue away from your clit. The most you allow yourself is to squeeze his hands; he laces his fingers through yours in response, gazing up at you as he swallows diligently. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Joxter’s mouth twitch.

“Make sure you get all of it.” He grabs the back of Snufkin’s head and rams him forward against your crotch; you hiss as his teeth clack against sensitive flesh.

“Be _gentle_!”

Joxter turns to glare at you. He leaves Snufkin’s hair to lean forward on hands and knees and get right up in your face.

“By God, you’ve got spirit.”

When you simply grimace at him, he rolls onto his side to look down your body to where Snufkin continues to massage his lips in soft circles.

“He’s got a lovely mouth, hasn’t he?” he remarks on a conversational tone. “I’ve always thought so, anyway.”

You see Snufkin wince, and you hate to imagine what that means he’s been through.

“Be sure to stick your tongue in, boy,” Joxter calls out, mocking an instructive tone. “I finished good and deep.”

He hesitates, looking up at you for permission. You brace yourself and nod.

At first he tries to get away with using just the tip, but his father quickly catches on and leans down, dragging your thigh away from protecting Snufkin’s head so that he see exactly how far he’s going.

“Further in, boy,” he rasps. “Get up to base.”

You can barely contain yourself at the sensation of him probing inside you, wiggling in a desperate attempt to scoop out any remaining ejaculate. You refuse to cry out, silencing yourself by bashing your head back against the counter. 

You’re horribly, horribly close to admitting that this feeling isn’t completely awful when Snufkin withdraws with a wet, slick sound. He coughs and pants.

“I’ve got it, papa. It’s all gone. It’s done.”

“It’s done, is it?” His tone suggests that it isn’t. “And what about your poor friend, hm? They aren’t done.”

“I… what?” His eyes flick back to you, trembling with panic and latent guilt.

“What do you mean?” you croak.

“I mean that you haven’t _climaxed_ yet, dear thing.” The Joxter reaches out to caress your cheek, then sneers when you shrink back from this false act of tenderness. He turns to Snufkin. 

“Make your friend come.”

You splutter.

“_What?_”

The Joxter shrugs. “It’s only fair. He might even be able to show you a good time, if he puts some effort into it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s already done enough…” 

“Nonsense. Now, boy…”

“No.”

The Joxter wheels round on him.

“You _what_?”

Snufkin’s shaking, but he’s balled his fists in brave defiance. “If they don’t want it, then I won’t do it. I won’t eat if it means doing that.”

Joxter’s mouth sets in a grim line.

“Then starve.”

“No!” you cry out before you have time to formulate a plan. The Joxter eyes you with interest.

“No? So, you want him to eat you out?”

You wince at the crass expression. “No, I…”

“You want Snufkin to use his pretty mouth to make you come, dear? Is that it? You can just tell me, sweet thing, I’d understand…”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” you shout. “I don’t want this, he doesn’t want this, and I won’t let you pretend otherwise!”

The Joxter’s expression falls like a guillotine.

“Fair enough,” he deadpans. “Now, come.”

You glare at him, wishing more than anything that you could scrape those blue eyes out of their sockets. Instead, you look down at Snufkin.

“Do what you were doing before,” you instruct gently.

He obliges, and this time you lean into him, steadily rolling your hips against the press of his tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut, shutting out Joxter, zoning in on the feeling of lips on skin. You reach down and he takes your hands as before, communicating so much in the squeeze of his fingers.

He hums gently, and for a moment, a wild and wonderful moment, you imagine yourself on a hillside in late spring, in perfumed air and dappled shade, the buzz of Snufkin’s lips against your body eliciting a music as sweet as anything he’s ever played. It’s so lovely a thought that it brings you to orgasm, muscles clenching and fluttering against his questing tongue.

It only serves to break your heart as you come down afterwards to realised that instead of spring this is mid-winter, and instead of an idyllic hillside, this is a dark, dank burrow inhabited by a madman.

“Well done, kitten,” the madman purrs. To you, he adds, “didn’t I say you’d have a good time?”

He cackles when you tell him to fuck off

“Well, if you say so.” He stands. “Now, you had better run along to bed, little kitten; your friend and I need to have our dinner.”

A pit opens in your stomach.

“But Snufkin needs to eat…” 

The Joxter turned to look down at you. His eyes rest on yours, then pass down to stare at where Snufkin is still crouched between your thighs.

“He’s already eaten.”

For a fraction of a second you think he’s joking before your disbelief plummets under the weight of realization like a rock dropped through satin. A boiling rush of indignant rage roars in to fill its place.

“_NO_!” 

Scrambling, desperate denial; he can’t do this, he can’t have made you endure all that for nothing, he can’t, he just can’t! A surge of shame follows, utter humiliation bursting in through the rafters of your soul, and you’re so embarrassed that he’s been able to make such a fool of you. And you’re angry that you’re embarrassed, and you’re angry with him, and you’re angry with Snufkin for not fighting back, and you’re angry that you’re angry with Snufkin, and… and…

You can’t hold the tears back. Drawing your knees to your chest, your break down.

Joxter watches you weep, impassive, and turns to Snufkin.

“Now look at what you’ve done.”

Snufkin chokes out a sob, and that’s too far.

“_LET HIM EAT_!” you scream, face wild, civility abandoned. “_LET HIM EAT, YOU UTTER BASTARD!_”

The Joxter stares at you, taken aback. You wonder if he might kill you, and in that moment you don’t care.

“_PLEASE!_” you howl, open and ugly, “_PLEASE, **PLEASE** LET HIM EAT!!_”

For a long moment it’s like time has been suspended and he stands unmoving. Then his eyebrows hover as his face cracks open into an uncanny smile.

“As you wish, my dear. Since you’ve asked so nicely.”

The relief burns in your lungs like air to a drowned man. You hear his footsteps as he walks away, the chink of cutlery, but that’s all very far away. You hide your face away in your hands, sick of the world. Your start at the feeling of hands on your legs; jerking upright, you see that they’re Snufkin’s. He’s crying too, a steady stream trickling from his lovely brown eyes.

He takes hold of your underwear and shifts them back up to cover your shame. Then he takes the waistband of your pants and does the same, carefully touching your hips so that you lift to make room for him to pull them up and round into place.

Then he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and places his arms around you as though that might keep the Joxter out.

It doesn’t, of course.

The Joxter has returned with a bowl of stew, a spoon, and a glass of water. Snufkin bolts to attention like a dog, watching the bowl with famished eyes. You want to feel some sense of victory, but the look in Joxter’s eyes makes you uneasy.

He puts the bowl down next to you, but when Snufkin reaches for he raps his hand away with the spoon.

“Ah, ah!” he scolds. “Greedy boy!”

You look at him with desperate eyes, tears brimming; oh God, what now?

“Oh, don’t you see? You’re his protector now,” Joxter explains in reverential tones. “His guardian angel. The provider of good things.”

He smiles beatifically as he pushes your shirt up to reveal your quivering stomach.

“As such, it is your job to provide good things.”

You cry out in shock as he ladles a spoonful of boiling stew onto your body. As you struggle to swipe it off, Joxter grabs Snufkin’s head and rams him into your abdomen.

“Eat,” he commands.

Snufkin gasps and obeys, sucking the liquid off your belly as fast as he can, leaving painful pink skin behind. Joxter pours on another dollop of food; it’s cooled a little but not enough not to hurt. Snufkin takes the chunks of meat and vegetables in his mouth and swallows them so fast that he resembles a wild animal, bolting the food back like it might taken away at a moment’s notice.

A third spoonful; this time, Joxter’s careful to pool it in your navel so that Snufkin has to use his tongue to dig it out. He sees how that makes your shiver, so he does it again. Then he takes your shirt and pushes it up further, rucking it up around your neck, exposing your chest. You’re too tired to fight when he places the next mouthful on your breastbone. Then he smears the back of the spoon over your nipples and watches, delighted, as you suffer under the suckle of Snufkin’s lips.

When at long last the bowl is empty, it feels like there isn’t a crevice of your body that Snufkin hasn’t tasted. But even as you dare to allow yourself to think this is over, the Joxter raises the glass of water to your lips.

“He needs something to wash it down.”

Hating this, hating him, you take a draft of water and then incline your head to Snufkin. He holds your jaw and presses his lips against yours. The first mouthful goes wrong and most of it ends up spilling down his chin as you both choke; you do better with the second mouthful and the third mouthful is almost easy.

You are aware then of the flicker of his tongue against your lips, and for briefest of moments you part your lips to allow for a lovely, gentle kiss.

It’s broken near immediately when the Joxter grabs Snufkin’s collar to wrench him off you and throw him back.

“_Greedy boy_,” he murmurs harshly, and when he looks back at you you swear you see a flicker of jealousy in his lightening-blue eyes.

“Get out,” he snaps at Snufkin. The boy gives you a look, hesitating; when you nod, he scrambles to his feet and flees.

The Joxter watches him go, then turns back to you.

“I trust we won’t have to talk about this again?”

“You’re a monster.”

He snorts. “Perhaps. And what does that make you? You, who so willingly opened your mouth to the boy you’re supposed to _protect_…”

You pitch forward and stumble to your feet. You hear him shouting after you as you run, but you don’t listen. You can’t listen. You can’t.

You tear away from the burrow to plough through drifts of clean, cool snow. In time, you know, as he knows, that you’ll go back.

But now is the time for you to vomit in a pristine white clearing and scream up into the winter sky.


End file.
